


war games

by godtierfics (godtiercomplex)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers, Hetalia: World Stars - Fandom
Genre: Is this Slow Burn, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:55:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28103553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godtiercomplex/pseuds/godtierfics
Summary: Francis has been courting Arthur through the ages. Arthur wants no part of that. Everyone else just wants them to get together already.“As I told you before,” Arthur said, “I will not share a bed nor a woman with you, heathen. You will not trick me into having relations with you by proximity nor proxy.”“But think about how fun it could be, Arthur,” Bonnefoy said. “One night of sheer lust— you must feel the attraction between us.”Arthur wearily let the glass drop and just glared openly at Bonnefoy. “And you must understand that the only attraction between us is one sided, as my side is full of nothing but hatred toward you.”“Oh, how you wound me, light of my world,” Bonnefoy said in a teasing tone.
Relationships: England/France (Hetalia)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 39





	1. repentance

**Author's Note:**

> [ Please have this on repeat during the entire first chapter.](https://youtu.be/KTfXUXqtkQw)

“Is that Lord Bonnefoy escorting Lady Claire?” A man of Arthur’s limited acquaintance said suddenly, interrupting their talk about the war that was happening in some far off land. Arthur turned, one hand reaching for the quizzing glass ever present on his person and tilting his head just so to look into the not so far distance at Francis Bloody Bonnefoy walking into a London ballroom escorting Arthur’s very own mistress.

It was quite deliberately done.

How vexsome the man was!

Several of the men around Arthur began to whisper amongst themselves as Arthur tried to decide what if anything he could do. One didn’t accompany a mistress to a ballroom and one didn’t openly acknowledge one’s mistress in polite society. It was a shameful thing Fran--Bonnefoy was doing. As Arthur’s eyes narrowed, he could see Bonnefoy leaning in to whisper something to Lady Claire and the both of them laughing. The lady knew better!

For now, Arthur contented himself that his hostess was hurrying toward Bonnefoy and Lady Claire— undoubtedly to hurry them on their way! The sheer nerve, the gall of the man. If the past six months had taught Arthur nothing, it was that he had never regretted the century he had met Bonnefoy more. At close to 2000 years old Bonnefoy truly ought to know better. Had the various years taught him that dallying about London with all to see and being all disgustingly French was simply not the way to force his unwanted attention on Arthur?

He could have simply called upon Arthur at his London townhouse and been received properly. But no, first this. Yet another scandal was to be created right on the heels of the one six months ago.

By God, Arthur thought grimly, if he didn’t know any better he would say Bonnefoy was deliberately trying to ruin Arthur’s life instead of having a mere bit of fun at his expense.

He turned his back on them and when that was not enough, he turned his attention to the cards room. Better to gamble for a while than watch this trainwreck of a ball. Or mayhaps it would be declared a grand squeeze with a touch of drama?

No less than twenty minutes had passed since he had first seen Bonnefoy than the man himself was tugging on Arthur’s arm with an almost shy smile.

Bonnefoy was lucky that Arthur didn’t slap him with his glove and demand satisfaction— but that was what his dancing blue eyes were just daring Arthur to do. So he didn’t. Instead he excused himself very nicely and made nice with the devil that had haunted him for the last few thousand years.

“What the fuck do you want?” Arthur asked once they had made their way outside to a private area. “And be quick about it!”

“Oh, you saw Claire then?” Bonnefoy said. “I rather hoped you would. She’s so lovely, and such an agreeable creature. The more the better to share your bed, hm?”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Who I share my bed with is none of your concern.”

“Is who I share my bed with your concern?” Bonnefoy asked. “Lady Claire has been most obliging.”

Arthur sighed, pressed fingers to his face, and then raised his quizzing glass to his eye. In other men it would have inspired fear. From Bonnefoy? It only inspired a laugh that was bright as the stars in the sky above them.

“As I told you before,” Arthur said, “I will not share a bed nor a woman with you, heathen. You will not trick me into having relations with you by proximity nor proxy.”

“But think about how fun it could be, Arthur,” Bonnefoy said. “One night of sheer lust— you must feel the attraction between us.”

Arthur wearily let the glass drop and just glared openly at Bonnefoy. “And you must understand that the only attraction between us is one sided, as my side is full of nothing but hatred toward you.”

“Oh, how you wound me, light of my world,” Bonnefoy said in a teasing tone. There was a sound of someone coming along the path toward them and he winked at Arthur. “If you were a maiden now would be my time to entrap you. No one will think poorly of us chatting however since we are both men.”

Indeed, the young couple, and they were young, so awfully young, made their apologies and hurried back to the ballroom. If he could only be that young again— but no. He had an immortal suiter to deal with. Bonnefoy was lucky he didn’t have a gun on his person at the time.

Arthur rolled his eyes. “There isn’t a need for my virtue to be feared with you, Bonnefoy.”

“Isn’t there?” Bonnefoy said giving his best— at least Arthur assumed his best attempt— at bedroom eyes. All lowered lashes, and a dark, slow wink.

“Go flirt outrageously with some ladies and leave me to my business. No, I shall not have you. I haven’t said yes once in the thousand years you’ve asked and I won’t say yes in 1818, 1918, nor in 2018, I wager.”

“You think we’ll live that long?” Bonnefoy asked seriously, “That England will last that long?”

“With the Queens and Kings I have no doubt of it.” Arthur wished he had a gun. He could put Bonnefoy out of his misery for a while. Dying was rather like sex to the French wasn’t it? They called it le petit mort or some other vulgar thing.

“Fine, I will bother you no longer. Lady Claire has been asked to leave, and I shall go visit her and imagine her plump thighs are your own.”

“I would ask that you enjoy the lady for her own virtues and not what you imagine mine to be. I would beg that you don’t consider me at all when you have relations with anyone.”

Bonnefoy gave him a smile that would have the strictest of matrons clutching their pearls and their daughters fainting.

#

The night day saw him paying a visit to Lady Claire herself. She tittered and laughed and finally announced that it had been for a lark. Her feelings had changed. She was to be with Bonnefoy now, she did hope Arthur, her dear Arthur understood.

He understood. Bonnefoy was out to take everything from him and leave him desolate. Arthur was not amused. He was not a toy for Francis to play with nor was he going to be so easily tempted to the man’s bed.

Arthur continued to not be amused as in the aftermath of 1818, Bonnefoy came to visit time and time again on personal business to seduce him. Arthur ignored him in those personal visits. They both saw fit to fade away from polite society for a few decades, and so Arthur only saw him when it came time for Nation business. There were always treaties, always war making, war mongering and upstarts to deal with. His own former ward was one such upstart, though Francis was quite taken with the boy— not in a romantic or sexual way thank god, but he had taken almost a paternal interest in the boy. A censure, Arthur was sure, against himself for abandoning the lad after Alfred and his people’s successful rebellion. He even gave the boy a statue to celebrate the final, total freedom of all people in America!

Good lord, the lengths Bonnefoy to go to in order to dig underneath Arthur’s skin was legendary.

“You think too highly of yourself,” Alfred said when Arthur voiced his complaint. “This is a gift for me, not a slight against you.”

“His gifts never come without certain expectations, certain demands--.”

Alfred rolled his eyes. “Can you guys do your weird hate flirting without involving me?”

His own former ward was now on Bonnefoy’s side— imagining flirtation where there was none. How disastrous.

The decades passed and he re-entered polite society. Men of his former acquaintance had died, leaving their grandsons and great-grandsons to entertain Arthur when he rejoined society. It was a sobering thought that the 20th century was upon them. And with that century came the dawning of yet another war and he found himself in the company of not just his former ward but also a man who would do all to be his lover.

“One has to feel some pity for Qing,” Bonnefoy was saying.

“One has to feel some pity for me,” Arthur muttered underneath his breath. “If you’re here to wax poetic and not discuss the business of this rebellion, be gone! Immediately!”

“Could I not wax poetic about your eyes?” Bonnefoy asked, closing a hand around Arthur’s own with a smirk on his face. “They are such a lovely forestry green—”

“Gross,” Alfred said as he and Japan stood in the doorway. Ludwig and the Italians weren’t too far behind him. “I thought this was to be an actual meeting not another poorly disguised invitation to an orgy.”

“There will be no orgies!” Arthur declared loudly, flushed red as he grabbed his hand from Bonnefoy and pointed his gun at the man for good reference. “I should pull this trigger and put us all out of our misery!”

Bonnefoy looked positively delighted, elevated at the idea. “First me then yourself, my dear heart?”

“Oooo-kay,” Alfred said. “We’ll leave you to your hate flirting. Want to see me shoot some cans, Kiku? Ludwig?”

The extras successfully left the scene and it was just Arthur and Francis in this tent in the heart of China, a gun shoved underneath Bonnefoy’s chin.

Bonnefoy blew him a kiss— and Arthur pulled the trigger.

#

“I believe that young Alfred is soft on old China,” Bonnefoy said as they partied with the rest of the Nations in the early half of the 20th century. “To hear him so passionately defend him— well, that is an unexpected match.”

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your company tonight, Bonnefoy?” Arthur asked, wearily as he wished for a gun. During the Boxer Rebellion he had shot Bonnefoy no less than half a dozen times, and each time the man had swiftly revived and been all the more eager to meet Arthur and mess with him.

“You looked lonely, standing alone in the moonlight. I thought to offer my body to comfort you,” Bonnefoy said with a laugh. He was always laughing, always flirting.

“I have a mistress for that,” Arthur said haughtily, voice cold as he turned his attention away from Bonnefoy.

“Do you?” Bonnefoy asked, voice heavy enough to warrant Arthur looking back at him. “More’s the pity for me.”

“You act as if I’m a drug you cannot quit,” Arthur said. “Do you need a medic, sir? A doctor to diagnose you and tend to your needs?”

“Are you volunteering, Dr. Kirkland?” Bonnefoy asked. “But they would all say the same thing, I’m afraid. I am terribly, tragically in love and the only cure for it is a daily tumble in the sheets for the rest of my life.”

“Disgusting, vexsome man,” Arthur said as he took his cue to go back to the ballroom. “I hope you catch a sickness and die.”

#

The 1920s were good to Francis. Many Americans, many of his own people came to love France and made it their home. And then… it happened. They all caught a sickness in the 1930s that led to Arthur wishing for once in his many, many years that he could die properly. Anything was better than this constant sickness, this pain that filled his body. He was only comforted by the fact that Bonnefoy was suffering worse.

This was all Alfred’s fault— a chant, a mantra that he kept up until the latter half of the 1940s hit and he no longer had the comfort of blame to place upon those wide shoulders. When had his former ward grown so large?

When had the world shrunk so hard that it seemed to be divided into lines of red and blue?

“We live in a difficult time, my dear,” Bonnefoy said at one of the meetings that he had been called into. They were both dealing with rebellion in their colonies, and there was nothing to be done but suppress those voices calling out. Bonnefoy seemed less inclined to do so, which was just like him. Arthur could not bear the thought of giving up any ground, of appearing any weaker.

“I’m not your dear,” Arthur said with pointed disgust.

“Now, now,” Matthew said, holding up his hands in a call for peace, “That’s not what we’re here for, hm?”

Alfred echoed his brother’s call for peace and they all settled in for this meeting of nothing and everything of consequence. The world that he knew was falling apart and what would be left to him afterwards?

The August of 1947 saw him left to nothing. The jewel of his Empire, gone. The rest are sure to follow.

A moment of weakness and who was there but Bonnefoy?

There was none of Bonnefoy’s customary flirations, nor any of his flowery words. Just an invitation after a meeting in September while his former colonies fought amongst themselves. Just an offer of coffee.

“I’m surprised there’s not more nudity on your walls,” Arthur said as he allowed Bonnefoy to take his coat and tuck it neatly away. There was only one nude painting on the walls— a woman with her hair long and flowing, curls covering those pieces of her that lead to more lustful thoughts. A hand draped casually here, there, against her hardened nipples.

It was tasteful considering it was Bonnefoy.

“She allowed me to paint her,” Bonnefoy said, “I have others, of course, but I find that this is my favorite of the set. Look at her eyes, look how they welcome in the viewer.”

Arthur did so begrudgingly. She had plump breasts, a firm stomach, and brown eyes that shone forth from her pale face. Her thighs were lazily spread apart, only her hand hiding a glimpse of the curls gathered there. It was a painting, of course, of one of Arthur’s former mistresses.

“Honestly, I don’t know why I bothered to come. Give me back my coat.”

“You came for coffee, and coffee you will get,” Bonnefoy said, “Sit down. Make yourself comfortable.” He waved a hand, indicating the sofa, the armchairs, and the fireplace that was not yet lit. Arthur didn’t take anything further in just staring at that thrice damned painting.

“You tiresome man,” Arthur said, not sitting, and not getting comfortable, “Give me my coat.”

“The lady offends you,” Bonnefoy said. He nodded to himself, went to the couch, and started to take down the frame. Arthur watched him silently as Bonnefoy removed the offending painting from his sight. The very nerve— the gall of him to have Lady Claire on display in such a setting!

(Arthur had imagined them in love with one another, at least, they had had an understanding before Bonnefoy had come along in 1818 and ruined it. Fresh off of his former emperor’s defeat he had tried to draw Arthur into an entanglement that would have seen them both dead for it.)

Arthur did not move until Bonnefoy came back, and with coaxing hands settled Arthur on the armchair and soon placed a mug of coffee into his hands. Bonnefoy then turned his attention to the fireplace. With a fire lit the apartments became more lively and Arthur could see more paintings— Bonnefoy’s and others— adorning the wall. There were no more nudes.

“I thank you for coming,” Bonnefoy said. “It has been some time since we had a private moment.”

“There have never been any private moments between us,” Arthur said, nastily.

“Ah, but you forget when we were young— before the whole ugliness started of my people conquering yours, or my aiding young Alfred’s rebellion.”

Unbidden the memory came to Arthur then.

#

“He has a fire in his eyes, Arthur, you would do well not to ignore it,” Bonnefoy said as they took tea with various people of account while Alfred was upon his studies. Soon the boy, his ward, would join them. For a short time he would be presented and then disappeared back into the school room where he belonged. His people were becoming too… openly distasteful, too openly rebellious for Arthur’s liking. Francis was just coming off of a war of his own, so he must know how ill prepared Arthur was for the mutterings of war that were coming from this land— his land. His ward.

His own blood that was starting to even consider rising up.

Arthur had never imagined anything more laughable.

“And you have a fire in your pants, I imagine, that you want me not to ignore,” Arthur said drily. Anything about fire led to talk of Bonnefoy’s lust for him. For once though, he was wrong, and Bonnefoy did not rise to the occasion.

“You are in the wrong, my dear,” Bonnefoy merely said.

“To the devil with you then!” Arthur said, and then while the rest of their group started to mutter in some shock, young Alfred appeared and all was forgotten for a time.

Until, of course, until… it wasn’t. Until it was Gilbert and Francis training up the young boy, equipping him for war. War against his betters— against his brother.

It wasn’t until after the war, until now, that Arthur could think of asking Bonnefoy a simple question.

#

“Why did you help Alfred fight against me?” Arthur asked.

“Because,” Bonnefoy said, “He deserved a chance to stand on his own two feet, to no longer be your ward, to be dependent upon you. Has he not proved that? And look at India and young Pakistan as well, have they not proved that?”

“You criticize when you have wards, colonies of your own?” Arthur asked. “They have ripped each other apart without my presence there—”

“No, they would have done so regardless. And I imagine I will not soon be guardian of all these nations much longer. But, that is not what we are here about,” Bonnefoy said. “You look tired, old friend. I simply thought to offer you rest.”

“I thank you for the coffee, but I am not tired,” Arthur protested. He set his mug down on the table in front of them. Bonnefoy settled a hand on top of his and then turned their hands until they were palm to palm.

“You are so tired, your hands are shaking with it,” Bonnefoy said. He smiled, a pretty, simple smile and asked, “Let me take you to bed.”

Arthur stood up, disgusted with himself for allowing himself even this small moment of weakness and walked to the door. “My coat.”

“I didn’t mean to offend,” Bonnefoy said. “But… you are tired. You must admit to that at least.”

“If I had a gun I would shoot you for my own satisfaction,” Arthur said. “But since I do not, let my words serve their purpose— I will never, ever sleep with you.”

Bonnefoy merely smiled and fetched Arthur his coat.

#

“I hope someday soon,” Gilbert said, “You will do Francis the honor of putting the both of you out of your misery and sleep with him.”

Arthur was aghast. After years of not seeing Gilbert, gone as he had been to Russia, he would’ve expected… better from him after so many years. He was the same— passionate, loud, and often vuglar. The only thing that had changed was that he was a bit more sickly, frail than he had been at the height of his power. Was this to be the fate of all nations that failed?

“I see you have not changed for the better,” Arthur settled on saying. This whole event was in celebration of the reunification of Germany and so he would do his best to be nice as his prime minister had asked.

“I see you still have a stick up your ass, but like I said, Francis would love to help you out with that,” Gilbert said. Then Ludwig and Alfred came up and he engaged both of them with a loud yell and a hug, and went off with them. Arthur was left on his own until, of all people, Angelique approached him. She looked pretty as a picture in her blue gown, and she even had braided and pinned her hair up.

“Arthur!” she said cheerfully, “How are you?”

“Better now that you are here, my dear,” he settled on saying. “I was having an unfortunate conversation with Prus— East Germany.”

“Oh, he’s looking well, but why was it unfortunate?” Angelique asked, brown eyes wide and surprised as she looked at Gilbert, Ludwig, and Alfred standing about.

“He said something that I found unpleasant, but tell me, my dear, how have you been? Is the weather agreeing with you?” Arthur asked her several questions and she answered openly, cheerfully to all of them. How he adored her despite the distance that had come from them when she too had left his guardianship.

Then there were a familiar pair of hands touching and squeezing her on the shoulders and she looked up at Bonnefoy with delight. “Dare I borrow Arthur from you for a few moments, my dear?” Bonnefoy asked. Arthur’s mouth tightened in a firm frown. “Oh, but look at the frown on his face. He will not go with me, do you think, Angel?”

“You will not go with Francis, Arthur?” Angelique asked, brown eyes innocent and yet laughing at them both.

There had been a day when she had called him ‘Papa’ but those days were long gone. Arthur just glared at Francis and held his nose high as he said, “We will take a short walk together, but you mustn’t wait for us—”

“Oh, I won’t! I think I see Mei with Leon. I shall go say hi to the both of them.”

Speaking of Leon there was yet another former ward who he shall miss.

“Take a turn with me outside?” Bonnefoy asked as Angelique left them. They were already on the balcony and it was just a short walk to get outside. Arthur agreed and they began to walk.

“You know,” Bonnefoy said as they walked, and why was Arthur already regretting this? “Soon it will be the 21st century.”

“Your point being?” Arthur asked.

Bonnefoy smiled at him, and placed a light hand on Arthur’s face and moved in closer, “Another century where you could be mine.”

Arthur slapped his hand away, stomped on his foot, and moved back. “I will never be yours.” “Must we keep dancing around this attraction?” Bonnefoy asked, reaching out for him again and successfully backing Arthur into a tree. He lowered his voice, pitched it just a shade touch of dark and continued. “When was the last time you had a lover, Arthur? Your body is made for loving, and I so want to embrace you. If only… you… would say yes.”

_Your body is made for loving._

“You are the last man, the last person who I would ever consider giving myself to,” Arthur said as he pushed past Bonnefoy and adjusted his evening coat. “I should have known you wanted nothing more than to be disgustingly French at me.”

Bonnefoy put a hand to his chest. “You wound me. Can you not see how hard I am for you? How much I burn for you?”

“If I had a gun, I would shoot you where you stand,” Arthur said with real venom in his voice.

Bonnefoy seemed to ignore that, at first, as he came to Arthur and loosely gripped his hand. “I once asked you to go to bed with me—”

“You have asked me that each time we’ve met over the last few centuries!” Arthur tried and failed to yank his hand away. Bonnefoy held tight even as he sank to his knees.

“I must ask you now to marry me,” Bonnefoy said.

Arthur just stopped moving and just looked down at the impossible man kneeling before him. “What the fuck?” he asked. “You take your jokes too far, sir!”

“I’m not joking,” Bonnefoy said. He smiled up at Arthur, kissed the palm of his hand and got up with an outrageous wink that implied he was still heavily fucking with Arthur. “You have ruined me for other men, for women. I can have no one else but you.”

How was it that they had never, ever had sex and yet Francis Bonnefoy still had managed to fuck him each way it was possible?

“You are a disgusting, distasteful, horrible man,” Arthur said. “I hate you from the top of my head to the soles of my feet. What on earth possibly suggested otherwise? What on earth could have led you to think that I would ever marry you?”

“You kissed me once,” Bonnefoy said, pulling Arthur’s hands to his chest, “And I have ached for you ever since.”

Arthur paled, remembering that night, that stupid drunken night in 1817 when he had kissed Bonnefoy. It had been a heated night, never to be repeated nor remembered since they had both been so heavily, stupidly drunk and yet… here was Bonnefoy in 1990 declaring himself in love since that stupid, fucking incident.

Arthur looked at Bonnefoy and said as nasty, petty, hateful as he could, “And then you took Claire from me, and I have hated you since.”

He got his hands back and walked away.


	2. salvation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Please listen to this while reading this chapter. ](https://youtu.be/Td2bsJIaC5M)

He had found Arthur drinking without him at a no account, no name pub quite far from the young Nation’s townhouse. Francis settled in next to him, and then asked the bartender to give him as much alcohol as it would take to catch up with his friend. An hour later saw them in a no name street, his hands down Arthur’s pants and Arthur’s lips pressed tightly, firmly against his own so that he wouldn’t scream as he came apart in Francis’s tender care. 

In the morning, there would be regrets. The young Nation would face scandal for being seen out of his cups and kissing up on a stranger, but it would be the talk for only a few days. No one else was there as Arthur sobbed into his mouth and let go for once in his life. No one else mattered aside from this man in his arms. 

Francis imagined himself just a bit more than halfway in love with Arthur. He had been falling in love since they had first met during the invasions. How he had wanted him then and how he wanted him now. 

But first, patience. Courtships were meant to be carried out carefully. 

#

It was jealousy that saw him with Arthur’s woman a few months after that alleyway exchange. He wanted to ruin her for tempting Arthur with her body, with her wiles, all when Arthur knew how Francis burned for him. When Arthur knew that Francis would die for him, a hundred, thousand times over. 

“Why does he not understand?” Francis muttered after a tumble with Arthur’s mistress had resulted in him smoking a cigarette. 

“Arthur? He is an old fussy body, a real stick in the mud,” Lady Claire said. Arthur cared for this woman— probably even loved her if his expression had been anything to go by earlier that night. He was absolutely furious with Francis for taking her, but that was what Francis did. He would remove all of these distractions, these botherations that kept Arthur’s attention from himself, one person at a time if he had to. He turned to Claire and inspiration struck. “Let me paint you,” he said. She agreed. 

They never touched again, but he painted her after she gave Arthur his marching orders. The man took up another lover shortly afterwards, but Francis could tell just from visiting the woman that Arthur did not care for her like he had for Claire. She was no beauty, no diamond shining. She had nothing of Claire or Francis’s own beauty to recommend her. She was simply convenient, a way for Arthur to vent some sexual frustrations that he would’ve been better off venting with Francis himself. 

One night— one night was all Francis wanted, and he would prove to Arthur that one night could never be enough. They could be joined for the rest of their immortal lives if Arthur would just say the word. 

However, Arthur likely wouldn’t, hadn’t, would never forgive him for his role in aiding his former ward’s rebellion. Despite that fact, Francis couldn’t help but dote on the boy. Alfred deserved the world, a proper mentor figure in the wake of Arthur’s abandonment. Alfred had died briefly, and Francis wondered if anyone had even informed Arthur, if the man had even cared. It was a terrible thing for a nation to be ripped apart from the inside out. After Alfred had returned to them, after all his people were free (or at least symbolically free) Francis’s people gifted Alfred’s people a statue. 

“Arthur _hates_ it,” Alfred reported with a bit of glee in his voice. “But I told him that it’s not to spite him, but to honor _me_. It is, right?” 

Francis ruffled the lad’s hair (noting as he did so that he seemed older already, wiser, stronger already). “Of course. Not everything I do for you is because of my feelings toward your former mentor.” 

“I would hope not,” Alfred said. “I don’t want to be in the middle of your hate flirting.” 

“Oh, my dear boy, I am hate flirting at all, merely flirting.” Francis hurried to assure him. 

Alfred believed him, and Francis left it at that. No, not everything he gave to Arthur’s former wards, his colonies, were to be seen as an insult to Arthur’s authority, but merely a celebration to the newly formed nation’s freedom. (If he neglected to celebrate the nations that left his care, if he fought wars to keep them from leaving, if he did not provide his former wards with gifts… that was between him and God.) 

#

Each day was a test of his good will, each time Arthur smiled at anyone, everyone but him was a trial. What had he done so wrong to have earned the man’s hatred rather than his love? He complained as much to Gilbert, and the man simply shook his head. 

“You come on too strong,” Gilbert said. 

“You? A love expert?” Francis said. “Next you’ll tell me that Ludwig captured the young Feli’s amor with your help.” 

“Oh, shove off,” Gilbert said. “You know I’m right. You’re so desperate for him, panting after him all the time that he won’t ever come to bed with you.” 

“You think so?”

“What you ought to do,” Gilbert said, “is have coffee with him and just talk. Be slow about it, don’t rush him. Seduce him. What the fuck happens to you when you’re around him?”

“He’s so… prickly that my usual methods fail. I must speak plainly with him or else he calls me out on it,” Francis explained with great pain. Gilbert scoffed at him, and Francis thought about how best to get Arthur to his bed again. 

#

Nothing worked—. And soon enough it was nearing the 20th century and it had been almost 80 years to the day that Arthur and he had had their encounter in the streets of London and yet… Arthur would still not have him. He was driven to distraction, but then arose a rebellion amongst the Qing and like everyone else with interests in the area he went. Arthur did as well. 

It was when Arthur pointed a gun at him, shoving it firmly underneath his chin, that Francis realized that the man hated him. It was better than the absolute indifference Arthur feigned at times— love and hate were two sides of the same coin after all. If he could just turn this hate to love… he would win. 

Arthur shot to kill him half a dozen times and half a dozen times Francis rose back up within seconds, a call of love on his voice. Even if everyone else stayed opposed to their love— even if Arthur himself thought Francis a crazy sex fiend, Francis knew better. They were destined for one another— had been for thousands of years. There was no helping it. 

And then… he realized that Alfred had fallen in love with Qing, with China and he did his best to encourage the match. One of the oldest nations with one of the youngest. How fun it would be to help such a love bloom. He did his best, and he liked to think he won China over to thinking kindly upon the young man. There was never any telling with any of the Asian nations, however, they kept their feelings tightly bound up. 

Much like Arthur did, or attempted to do at any rate. 

A war, a pandemic, broke out and there was no helping any of it. He fought side-by-side of Arthur and still the man would not look kindly upon him. War was no time for flirtation so he set aside those ambitions and was serious. Then the 1920s erupted and there was a great arrival in his cities of all the best that America and England had to offer. A mass exodus and Arthur couldn’t stand it, Francis could tell. 

But he loved them as if they were his own, and many of them adopted themselves to his lands, losing their original citizenship and becoming French, becoming part of his national story. 

Then another sickness came, and his people cried out. Sometimes Francis wished for death, but he knew that would not help his people. So he rolled up his sleeves, adopted a stiff upper lip, and did what needed to be done. 

He was still doing what needed to be done when the War broke out. The war to end all wars was replaced by another. An occupation of his lands, a death blow to his people, and himself the weaker for it. Yet, Arthur remained so strong, so firm during it. His former ward, Alfred, asserted himself during the War— he excelled during it. He conquered, vanquished the enemy. All of them did, but there was nothing like the propaganda that began soon after the war. All of them weary and only Alfred barely touched by it. He and Ivan both rose to the occasion and the great love story that was that of Alfred and China took on another twist. 

The great love story that was himself and Arthur did as well. 

#

Francis brought Arthur home, to the apartment that he had carefully selected with the other man in mind. It was cozy, warm, inviting. It was the perfect love nest. There were many of his own original paintings on display as well as those from the masters that he had acquired when they still lived. Pieces that had never entered the public domain, had never been known. Arthur’s eyes were only for one piece. That of Lady Claire, the woman who had once been Arthur’s and then had been Francis’s woman. She had died many, many decades ago. Cared for by Francis’s own pocket until her death. 

It was the least he could do for her. For Arthur. For the pain he had caused. 

Arthur stayed for coffee but barely at that. It was in seeing Arthur amongst his belongings, in this home that Francis had gotten for him— that Francis realized that he would have to step up his game. It was not enough for Arthur to merely sleep with him the once and see their future stretching before them, it would never be. He wanted him, body and soul. He wanted him in marriage. Such a silly, human concept for beings who used marriage as treaties, who saw marriage as a bargaining tool. He had proposed before, desperate for more money, but not serious. Never expecting an honest agreement from Arthur. 

But now… he would propose again, desperate for Arthur to envision their future together. Not as Nations, but as men. Two men in love with one another.

There was just simply the question of helping Arthur see that it was love he felt for Francis, not the hate he always claimed. 

#

So what was to be done? How could he now in the 21st century show Arthur that he was loved beyond merely what his body could offer to Francis and loved for the entirety of himself? His proposal had failed, Arthur deeming it yet another joke even though Francis had never played, never joked when it came to him. So what was left to him? 

Maybe indifference, no, maybe a slow seduction would be for the best. But how did one reverse course after so many years of deliberate, steady pursuit? 

Francis was in despair. 

Alfred was bemused when next they met. 

“I haven’t heard Arthur mention you _once_ in our past three meetings. What are you plotting this time, Francis?” Alfred asked. “Please don’t tell me a repeat of the 1978 giant air writing campaign.” 

“No, air writings are not popular anymore,” Francis said. 

“It wasn’t popular then either,” Alfred muttered. 

“No, I am simply… giving him space,” Francis said. “I want him to miss me.” 

Alfred gave him a slow, steady scan. It was a hard look at Francis, and he wasn’t altogether sure that Alfred liked what he saw but what Alfred did say was— “You need to shave. Your stubble is getting gross,” and left it at that. 

And so despite everything in him that called out for the opposite, he stayed away from Arthur. No maneuvering so they were seated beside each other at meetings, no calling upon him unexpected at his London townhouse— nothing. He stayed out of sight, and hopefully not out of mind. 

His plan was successful when less than two months after he started, he arrived home to find Arthur waiting outside of his apartment with his arms crossed in front of his chest. Each exhale of air left a cloud in the air before him. He was loosely bundled up, not quite properly dressed for the weather. Arthur was beautiful. 

And pissed, so very, very pissed. 

“What,” Arthur said with scorn in his voice, “are you plotting now?” 

It was the year 2000 and for once Arthur had sought him out on his own. Francis smiled. 

“Nothing,” he said with true sincerity. “Nothing at all.”


	3. redemption

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Please listen to this while reading this chapter. ](https://youtu.be/IOX30CHr4JY)

Arthur didn’t know why he was here, on Francis’s doorstep, other than mild, irritating concern. Alfred had mentioned at their fourth meeting of the month that he wasn’t complaining about Francis like he usually would. Arthur had been forced to admit that there was nothing to complain about as Francis hadn’t done anything to him. And that was the problem wasn’t it? For the better half of a thousand years Francis was always doing _something_. It wasn’t in the man’s nature to not be causing wars or otherwise causing problems for Arthur. 

Yes, this newest silence was exactly that. A problem created by Francis to target Arthur. 

He narrowed his eyes at the man, and said (really asked), “Aren’t you going to invite me in? It’s the middle of January, sir.”

Francis shifted his bundles of groceries to his left arm and smiled brightly at Arthur. “My dear, I wasn’t prepared for you to visit today. Let me not be rude any longer.” He reached into his coat pocket, retrieved his keys, and let them both into the apartment. Arthur went in first, glad to be out of the cold, less glad about the circumstances that had led to his being here. A quiet Francis was a plotting Francis and he did not need that in his life. It was January 13th, 2000. He needed peace and quiet as he welcomed in this new year. 

Francis was quiet as he invited Arthur to sit, which Arthur did not, could not do. He instead followed Francis into the kitchen as the man started up the coffee machine, and started to put away his groceries. It was horribly domestic. Arthur almost felt like he was intruding, but then he remembered how he hadn’t heard from Francis in the better part of two whole months. 

Francis was babbling on about members of their acquaintance— fellow nations that is— and Arthur grew more and more annoyed as he listened. 

“I do not care what Antonio is doing, nor do I care to hear what Ludwig is up to. And bless her heart, I do not care either what Emeline or Sophia are doing either. What are you doing? What have you been doing? What are you _plotting_?”

Francis smiled at him, and then took his hand and coyly asked, “Have you missed me, my dear?”

“I’m not your dear anything,” Arthur took his hand out of Francis’s grasp and moved back in the kitchen until he was standing by the stove. He glanced down at it and then back to Francis. “I have not missed you— but I know you. You wouldn’t go quiet like this for no reason.” 

“I have my reasons,” Francis said, smiling as he did so. He took out a package from a local bakery and started to prepare a tray full of biscuits and coffee as Arthur watched wordlessly. “What brings you here, Arthur if you’re not missing me?” 

Arthur’s brow furrowed and he looked at him. Really looked at him for a long, quiet moment. Francis’s beard was coming in soft and golden, his blue eyes were looking rather tired and worn, and his lips looked rather disturbed. Chewed upon and used. 

Why was Arthur here if not for the simple fact that he was concerned?

“Are you well?” he finally asked. 

Francis looked at him and settled the tray on the table in the small dining portion of the apartment. He started to unload it briskly as he smiled at Arthur. “I’m not unwell if that’s what you’re asking,” Francis said. “Come, sit, you must be cold.” 

Arthur still had on his coat and gloves so he shoved the gloves into his pocket before placing his coat gingerly on the back of his selected chair. For a hysterical moment he briefly thought about how the green cushions on the chair matched the color of his eyes. 

(It would be just like Francis to decorate his own home with Arthur in mind.) 

“Now, shall I start or shall you?” Francis asked. “It’s the new year, have you come to pay your greetings?” 

“I suppose,” Arthur said. “There was no card from you this year—” a lie, as there had been from Francis’s boss, but not no small attachment of flowers or candies or cake with it. Just a card from the Boss with simple greetings. No signature from Francis himself. An oversight? Or deliberate? It made Arthur uneasy. “And I imagined you unwell. But I see now that you are perfectly fine.”

“I’m not,” Francis said. “I’m not perfectly fine.” 

Arthur’s brows slammed together as he looked over Francis slowly, more carefully, looking for a sign of injury. “What do you mean?” 

A quirk of the left side of his mouth as Francis half smiled. “I’m in love, and the one I love won’t acknowledge me— until he did. By coming to visit me because he imagined that I was unwell. How should I interpret your concern, Arthur? You usually have to be begged to visit before you will come to me.” 

Arthur sipped his coffee. Why was he here? Why had he shown up without even a message from his embassy or a request from his Boss? 

He had been concerned, and irritated with himself for his concern. He was even more annoyed now as he looked at Francis and saw a man who looked content to just sit here with him. 

“I’ve come to sleep with you,” Arthur decided. “Because clearly that is the only way to stop your plottings against me.” 

Instead of reacting in any of the ways that Francis typically— well how Arthur imagined he would, Francis merely smiled, sipped his coffee and asked, “Oh? What brings about this sudden change?” 

“Nevermind then!” Arthur declared. “I won’t sleep with you.” 

“No, no,” Francis said, as he lowered his hand on top of Arthur’s hand. He was so warm and Arthur felt a knot loosen inside him as Francis brought his hand up to press a kiss to the palm. “There’s no changing your mind now. Shall I feed you first or would you like to take a bath first?” 

“Oh my god,” Arthur said. “Kill me now.” 

Francis smiled and tugged him upwards into a kiss. 

#

Kissing Arthur was like kissing a storm. A storm given flesh, but still a storm. He fought it until his knees gave out and he had to lean against Francis, panting, weak with need for Francis. Or so Francis liked to imagine. He liked to imagine a lot as he slowly stripped Arthur out of his ridiculously grey sweater and left it on the living room floor on the way to the bedroom. It was tempting to have him on the couch, but no. Only the bed would do for their first time. Their first of many times, Francis hoped. 

Arthur fought him, hands tugging at Francis’s coat, tugging at Francis’s pants, his belt. He obliged by stepping out of his pants while he smoothed a hand up Arthur’s stomach, feeling the muscles clenched up so tightly there as he sucked bruises against Arthur’s neck. He let his coat drop in the hallway as he led them to the bedroom. Francis shoved off his own shirt, and gently, slowly pulled down Arthur’s pants as they tumbled down onto the floor just below the bed. 

Francis laughed as Arthur swore at him. “There’s a perfectly good bed just above you, my dear, mon amour.” 

“Stop being French at me!” Arthur said, but his heart wasn’t all the way into it. His cock was pressing up against Francis’s thigh and he had to be burning, aching for it. Francis was burning, aching for it, so without any further thought he pressed his lips to one of Arthur’s nipples and gently rolled the hardened bud between his teeth. Arthur let out a hiss of air in protest, and Francis settled a hand on the bed above them and reluctantly let go of Arthur long enough to pull him up on the bed with him. 

Properly settled he took a moment to delight in his prize, his reward for patience as he kissed Arthur’s cheeks and then his lips. His chin, and then his chest, and by the time he reached Arthur’s belly button, the cries of protest had settled into soft little gasps. 

“If I had a gun—” Arthur bit back his words as Francis kissed him through his boxers. 

“You would shoot me,” Francis said as he gently, carefully, slowly urged the boxers down and off completely. Arthur only had his socks left and Francis still had his own underpants on but that was neither here nor now. He could wait. He was always patience itself when it came to sex. For now, he gripped Arthur firmly and lowered his mouth down until he could feel Arthur’s cock touching the back of his throat. Any other words that Arthur might have said were lost in his wordless scream as Francis performed as only he knew how. He teased him as carefully as he could. He took him apart with his fingers, mouth, and throat until Arthur was spilling down his throat with another wordless moan. 

Arthur was panting, green eyes wide as Francis looked up at him. 

“You… you’ve,” Arthur said, and then wiped at his own face, and Francis mimicked the gesture to clean off his own face. Arthur was silent as Francis moved back up to cuddle him, pressing kisses against his neck and shoulder until Arthur was squirming against him. 

“You taste as good as I imagined,” Francis said with a deep, contented smile on his face. 

“You are a disgusting man,” Arthur said, “Was that really necessary?” 

“I want all of you,” Francis said, spraying his fingers against Arthur’s stomach and watching his love’s cock twitch with some interest, “So it wasn’t disgusting for me.” 

“Did you even…” Arthur asked, before glancing down at Francis’s cock straining against his briefs. “Of course not,” he said with some mild horror in his voice. “I suppose you’d like to fuck me now, is that it?” 

“No, I was rather hoping to be the one fucked when you’re able,” Francis said with a laugh. “Come here. Kiss me. You might as well— you’ll soon be inside me.” 

Arthur seemed to consider that, and then cursed himself and Francis before grabbing hold of Francis’s hair and pulling him into a determined kiss. If he had any complaints about tasting himself on Francis’s lips, he hid it well. He rubbed himself against Francis’s more than willing body, and bit him on his neck. There would be a collection of noticeable bruises on the both of them— mere days before they were due to appear for another Nation meeting. Francis delighted in the knowledge as he let Arthur push him onto his back, and placed his hands on Arthur’s hips. 

#

“You could ride me like this if you’d like,” Francis offered as Arthur hesitated momentarily before continuing to pull off Francis’s briefs. His dick was red and angry and leaking. It had to be painful. _Good_ , Arthur thought, _suffer_. 

“Shut up,” Arthur said, face red and flustered as he looked around the room from his position between Francis’s knees. He had some experience with the business but it had been some time since his last encounter of this sort. He usually preferred women. He hadn’t come prepared to go this far with Francis— to go this far at all. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, only that he couldn’t very well stop now. 

He would leave the freaking out for later, the berating himself for afterwards. Right now was a time for pleasure. He could hear the sound of Francis mocking him as he thought about what needed to happen next. As expected when he reached past Francis’s head and into the dresser next to what was clearly his preferred side of the bed (the opposite side to Arthur’s) there were all the necessary and even unnecessary items in there. He ignored the pink dildo to grab the lube that was there. 

Francis smiled at him, had the nerve to laugh with pleasure (?) as Arthur shoved two fingers liberally coated with lube into him. 

“I should have ignored you sooner if this would be the result,” Francis muttered as Arthur grimly set about opening him up. 

“This— this is not happening because you ignored me— were you ignoring me?” Arthur asked as his fingers stilled. Francis smiled, and brought both hands up to kiss Arthur graciously. How was it that Arthur was the one about to penetrate Francis yet the other man was still in such control over their situation? 

Arthur hated it. He wanted to wipe that contented, smug look right off of Francis’s face. 

“I could never ignore you,” Francis said as Arthur withdrew his fingers after hastily adding a third. “I love you after all, I want to be with you— I want to marry you.” 

“Shut up,” Arthur said, “And don’t tense up.” He added that last bit as he pressed his way inside of Francis. There was no time to wonder about the how or why of it— Francis had merely gotten his way at last. They would reestablish boundaries later. 

But for now, Arthur bent over Francis, pressing him into the bed as he pressed steadily inward, and then withdrew. Francis gasped, and Arthur couldn’t help his smug smile as he set to his task. 

Francis might be French, might be a lover of all kinds but Arthur was skilled. He knew how to best pleasure his partner, how to drive them wild until they were sobbing out his name. 

His name sounded different on Francis’s lips. 

“Ah, my love. I always knew that it would feel like this. I must be in heaven, I must have died. If I have died, do not mourn me,” the fact that Francis was talking, muttering in French was distasteful to him. 

Arthur hated that he knew what Francis was saying as they rocked together. How closely aligned they had been all these many centuries. How deeply he hated this man. 

How big of a fool did Francis take him for? 

Yet, here he was giving Francis exactly what he had asked for. One night, one time. 

Never to be repeated again. 

He didn’t know why the thought sent his hips to snapping faster, his hands to tugging harder on Francis’s hips to align him just right. Francis screamed and Arthur knew he had hit the right spot. He moved again, and again and Francis’s arms closed around him as he sobbed out thankful noises and kissed up and down Arthur’s chin and neck. 

Yes, just this one night. That was all he had promised. 

#

Arthur fell asleep once they had finished. Two orgasms was apparently all it took for him to be knocked out. Francis was delighted to find that he was a cuddler in his sleep. After he cleaned both of them to Arthur’s protestations, he tucked them into bed and fell asleep himself. In the morning they would talk. 

In the morning, they would discuss the terms of their marriage. Such thoughts kept Francis grinning the whole night long. 

It was pure luck that he woke up as Arthur moved out of his arms. The bedside clock read 4:16 AM. 

“Where are you going?” Francis muttered in French at first, and then repeated himself in English as Arthur frowned at him in the dimly lit room. 

“Home,” Arthur said. “I’ve overstayed my welcome.” He had love bites up and down his arms and chest. Francis’s heart was warm as he smiled at him. 

“No, you haven’t,” Francis said. “You are home. I brought this place for you, you know? You needn’t rush out in the dark of night.”

Arthur sighed and Francis smiled, kissed his chin, and went to the restroom. When he came out, Arthur was more than halfway dressed in yesterday’s clothing. 

“You really are going home?” Francis asked. 

“You got what you wanted, so yes,” Arthur said. “I suspect now you’ll continue to ignore me which suits me just fine.” 

“Me? Ignore the love of my life? Never,” Francis declared. He went to his coat and pulled out a small box he had taken to carry everywhere with him since his first failed marriage proposal in 1990. 

#

Arthur eyed it with suspicion from his seat on the bed. 

Francis got down on one knee and held the ring box out to him. A simple silver band that was a snake wrapped in on itself was in the box. Two emerald eyes looked up at Arthur as Francis looked up at him as well. The ring and the man both there before him.

“Will you marry me?” 

“You’re serious then,” Arthur said flatly. He didn’t take his eyes off of the ring that had been crafted, Arthur was sure, especially for him. He wondered how long exactly Francis had had it. It looked well made, custom made— something from the… earlier eras when Francis had first begun this pursuit. It also looked strangely modern. It wouldn’t be out of place for Arthur to wear it— why was he even considering the man seriously? 

Why was he feeling even the least bit… emotional, flattered over this? 

Several centuries of dogged pursuit and he had been worn down by two months of radio silence. How weak was he! 

“I’ve always been serious,” Francis said. 

“Fine,” Arthur said. “Very well.” 

He wanted to take back his acceptance as soon as he had spoken, but it was too late. Francis’s eyes lit up like the sun and he slipped the ring (it fit perfectly) onto Arthur’s finger without much more fuss. 

“You have made me the happiest man I know,” Francis said as he pressed a kiss to Arthur’s palm. 

“Yeah,” Arthur said, not even feeling half as petty as usual as he looked at Francis on his knees for him. “I know.”

#

“This has been a smashing wedding,” Alfred said to both Arthur and Francis as he came to give his congratulations. “I’m so happy for the both of you.” 

They had been married, of course, in Paris. Francis would have no other locale for his wedding. Arthur found that he didn’t really care in the end as long as things were done to his standard. Having the entire topmost floors of the Eiffel Tower rented out for their wedding was one such standard. The views across Paris were remarkable. 

“I always knew you would be happy together,” Angelique said after Francis and Alfred shared a hug. Arthur considered her, smiled, and thanked her. Francis tugged him into a group hug with Angelique and he allowed it. It was his wedding day— he supposed he could be more touchy feely than usual. 

He just was in shock. Centuries of this game had ended in his defeat. He didn’t know what to feel or what to expect as the evening wore on. They danced, they cut the cake that Francis had insisted on baking himself, and they made merry. 

It was surreal. 

“Isn’t this a magical night?” Francis asked as they danced underneath the stars. “Doesn’t it make you feel this much closer to heaven?” 

Arthur considered him, considered the night sky, considered their guests, and grinned. “I’m pretty sure neither of us is going to Heaven.” 

Francis laughed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! 
> 
> I can be found on twitter [ @godtierfics](https://twitter.com/godtierfics) where I'm always live tweeting my process through fic writing or media I'm engaged with!


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